A Coburg-Drury Christmas
by meldahlie
Summary: What do you get if you combine wandmakers, Bavarian relatives, three muggle-born witches and a very sulky house-elf? A festive sequel to 'Blood Status'... Post DH; one-shot.


_A/N: For the Astronomus Maximus, aka Diogenes, and all those who liked 'Blood Status'. Warnings for sequel-itis and seasonality.  
_

A Coburg-Drury Christmas 

I suppose I may as well begin at the point where it all went wrong. For up until then we had been having a remarkably good Christmas, considering the difficulties.

The first difficulty had been, of course, persuading everybody that there were difficulties. And when 'everybody' includes my little brother at his most idiotic pre-Christmas idiotic-ness, that was quite a difficulty. Meck could not see that he should be particularly bothered that the extended Coburg-Drury family would, as usual, be gathering in Kingston, where he and I would be expected to be; that Julie would be in her flat in Wembley; and that there was no way she could possibly fit Sally and Pam, both home from Hogwarts for the Christmas holidays, into that titchy flat with enough space over for a decent Christmas tree.

I was pretending I had not seen the photo of the hideous silver tinsel 'tree' Pam had once shown me, as "the last Christmas Mum and Dad were alive." It had not compared favourably with a thread-bare loo brush, let alone a Tree! We are Coburg-Drurys. We have _proper_ Christmases – and if last year had been a bit odd, that was all the more reason for this one not to be! When I pointed this out to Meck, he said "Yes…?"

I glared at him. "Is that all you're going to say on the subject?"

"I don't see what you're getting in a tizzy for," said the wand-maker, calmly picking up his sandpaper again. I had invaded the sanctum of the inner workshop in order to get hold of him – he was therefore pretending to work, as a ruse to try and get shut of me. He rubbed vaguely at an already highly polished wand. "You'll think of something."

There are times when it is a good thing the fifteenth-century craftsmen who built No. 17, Kentish Town put reinforcing charms on the interior doors.

Fine! If some people weren't going to be the least help, they couldn't complain if they found themselves organised! Correction: some people can, will, and do complain at all forms of necessary organisation; deride it as a 'windmill mode' and such; but they have no _legitimate_ grounds to complain. With Meck, that's about as good as you're going to get. I left him to shut up the shop that evening, and descended on Julie instead.

White mice, of course, do not complain. Nor argue back. Nor contribute constructively to a conversation. They ask you in and bring you a cup of disgusting liquid muggles call 'instant coffee,' which may be responsible for the ancient Dark wizard belief that muggles try to poison wizards. I put it down and pointed out her portion of the difficulties.

She looked at me in a large-eyed fashion, and then at the veritable cupboard of a sitting room we were sitting in, and then said "Oh…"

I did not glare at her. White mice seem to dissolve into tears at my glares. So I Looked at her. "Is that all you're going to say on the subject?"

"I suppose it's a… a bit small," she faltered, "but we managed to squeeze in the old flat I had…"

_You do not 'manage to squeeze' for Christmas! _

I said so.

She sat there and blinked.

"And besides," I added, "Meck's going to want to spend Christmas with you, and he has to be at home in Kingston – I'm not entertaining Mrs Fred unaided."

Meck's fiancee blushed slightly. "I don't want – want to cause any – disruptions – to your, er- family things – er…"

She stopped. I was Looking at her again. Everything, however much hassle it would be, had become patently clear from my conversations with these two idiots. "I don't think you could cause disruptions if you tried," I observed frankly. "The point is, simply, that you and Sally and Pam are coming to us for Christmas."

I got up, and sent the Nescafe to wherever vanished objects go – a place which probably didn't deserve to get it. "When I've figured out exactly which day, I'll let you know."

My future sister-in-law got up meekly. "If you tell Meck, he can pass it on."

_Pass it on! We are Coburg-Drurys! When we invite people for Christmas, we __**Invite**__ them!_

I said so. And left.

Getting things organised oneself is, in reality, much easier than trying to get anybody else to help. I figured a little regarding spare bedrooms and train times; evaded Mother's prescriptions of Bobbin's Patent Headache Draught "because you're frowning all the time, Thaklia, dear"; and finally put it to her at one dinner time that Meck wanted to invite his _Verlobte_ for Christmas, but because her parents had died, 'with the War and all,' that would mean her two little sisters as well – and I thought that would be too much for Father.

The one circumstance for which Father raises his voice is when he wishes to remind us that he is "NOT DEAF!"

Mother and I were appropriately reminded.

I was appropriately contrite for thinking him too old.

The Lowes were coming to us for Christmas.

_(Where was Meck? I don't know. I don't know where Meck is when he's not here, do I?)_

~:~

Meck's comment was "Oh, right." I don't know what the white mouse said when she got the invitation. The house-elf whinged and muttered in its usual vein. In fact, the only two people to show any reasonable enthusiasm for the arrangements were the two youngest parties – and perhaps that was only to do with the box of Spritz biscuits I sent with the explanatory letter.

Only the one box – I know! But I _was_ suddenly rather busy, and they _had_ been properly sustained with monthly boxes of biscuits and cake apiece so far this term – Julie had shown no sign of appreciating the need for proper sustenance in order to survive the chills of Slytherin's below-lake common room, so I had had to fill the gap – and the Spritz biscuits _were_ only intended as an extra.

A joint letter of thanks came back, started in Sally's handwriting and then changing script halfway through, with the crumpled state of the parchment strongly suggesting a disagreement over the scribe's recording of the thousand-word-a-minute dictation, with the dictator taking over the writing by main force. The gist of it was that they would be very glad to come – would I like them to tell Julie?

_Why am I believed to have no manners?_

_~:~_

From that point on, the difficulties were not, in fact, particularly difficult. Nothing compared to last year when I was trying to run the shop and help arrange a usual Coburg-Drury Christmas at home AND hide, feed and educate three illegal muggleborn witches over the shop. Not to mention fending off a nosy Death Eater and Martjee Van Dyke.

_(For the Death Eater, see shortly. As for the Van Dykes, I hadn't seen either of them since the Second of May, as most people call it. Their shop's still there and I haven't seen them carried out yet, ergo…)_

This year, I had only Meck at the shop, and he, thank Merlin, only needs feeding, not educating. That is to say, he still desperately needs educating, but is five years past the age at which the government and the Wizarding Examination Authority gives it up as a bad job, so Meck and his stack of straight 'O's are his own problem, not mine. Until next June, I suppose, when he will become partly Julie's problem as well. Furthermore, Meck was also taking less feeding, because without asking me he had declared himself to have Wednesday lunchtime "Off" – and went out. He wasn't telling me where to.

Not that this typically Mecklenbergian shortfall in information matters. The DMLE does not have hearings on Wednesday lunchtimes and their clerical staff consequently has a long lunch break on Wednesdays. I know this because Angela Timms's older sister, not sharing the family obsession with eels, had a job there when I was at Hogwarts with Angela. Julie has a job there now. I am not stupid.

I had, however, forgotten the levels of disorder and chaos the Lowes can bring into one's life within about three seconds of contact with them. They came three days before Christmas, and within a minute our hall was swamped in noise and muddle: Mother greeting Julie, Meck shouting cheerily at everybody, Father and Pam making an acquaintance at the tops of their voices, all of us stumbling among the luggage, that wretched kneazle underfoot, Pam's owl hooting, the house-elf fussing and Sally scrambling after it trying to engage it in conversation.

I gave up saying 'Hello' to nobody in particular, and rescued Fifi from the bowl of festive potpourri on the lower shelf of the hall table instead. This is, after all, the usual state of affairs when we have visitors – everybody fawns over Meck while I get things ready beforehand and clear up afterwards. If Great-Aunt Elisaveta had not been making such a fuss of Meck that visit when he was three, he might not have got so wound up that he bit her, and so forth. At this point, the wretched kneazle bit me – and I was violently hugged by the littlest Slytherin.

"They've been yummy biscuits!"

Well, at least some things get appreciated. I held Fifi out to her owner, to try and get a free hand to return the salutation, and promptly got an awkward, one-armed Gryffindor hug back. "The Spritz biscuits were wonderful! We did divide them fairly."

Biscuits, of course – when your kneazle's just bitten me. "You're bleeding," said the white mouse, joining the pile-up. _I'd noticed, __V__ielen dank…!_

Sally finally noticed the need to take her pet, and I mopped my hand in my robe skirts, hugged Julie with the other arm, glared at Meck, and attempted to regain a little order in the situation.

"Afternoon tea, ten minutes! Julie, the drawing room's that door. Meck, be a gentlemen! You two, come upstairs and I'll show you your room – you can unpack later. Cases – upstairs!" – the last to the house-elf.

From that point on, as Father described it, we had _Nisse_ in the house. You know, those muggle Christmas Sprites who frolic about in the festive season, spreading mischief and goodwill and happiness and all that – probably just a distant folk memory of a really exuberant Gryffindor Christmas party. Having said that, it would seem that certain smaller Slytherins are capable of being pretty festively exuberant too. They explored; they 'helped'; they sampled; they asked; they laughed; they bounced; and they somehow managed to charm both Mother and Father even more than Julie did. She was, by the way, a model guest and a dab hand at arranging extra greenery, except that when Meck was around greenery always included mistletoe, and then… ahem!

I wasn't sure whether I was on my head or my heels – a state of affairs probably best illustrated by a selection, a very small selection, of the absurd conversations I had in those three days.

Take the marzipan pigs, for example. Doesn't everybody have marzipan pigs at Christmas?

"No," said Sally, licking her fingers from her third 'sample.' "Not even ones that don't oink in the storage tin."

Pam looked up thoughtfully from the other side of the kitchen table. "Thaklia, we're dipping the cherries in chocolate…" _(I know, one shouldn't make visitors help! But they'd offered – and I'd always liked doing the cherries-in-brandy at that age.)_

"Yes?" I asked, as this seemed to be going somewhere, but I wasn't quite sure where.

"Can we dip the pigs?"

"You'll drown them!" the Gryffindor yelped in horror.

"Not if they only wallow like it's mud! Saddlebacks! Gloucester Old Spots! Thaklia, what sort of pigs are they?"

You see what I mean?

Or the matter of the house-elf:

"What's his name?" Pam demanded suddenly on Little Christmas Eve, trailing up the stairs after me.

I stopped. A house-elf is a house-elf. We had Russy when I was at Hogwarts – then either the next one was Tobby, and this one Toddy, or the other way round… "Ask him," I said hastily, because both younger Lowes were now staring up the stairs at me expectantly.

"As in 'you don't know'?" quoth the Littlest Slytherin.

"Hermione Granger would have a fit, if she knew," Sally put in cheerfully before I could think of an answer to that one. "She has a thing about being nice to house-elves."

How do you be 'nice' to a house-elf? I mean, he has good food, a warm kitchen, and an old feather-stitched linen tablecloth to wear, and there are only the four of us most of the time to look after. Besides, the effects of ever being anything other than very firm with whatever-his-name-is are – but argument is futile with Gryffindors.

"She might have," I said, starting upstairs again, "but she doesn't have to put up with our house-elf."

Then there were the Christmas trees:

"Why have you got _six_ Christmas trees?"

One each for the hall, the drawing room, the dining room and the reading room, plus two smaller (only eight foot high) ones on both landings – is that really such a surplus as Sally's question made it sound?

I considered. "We just do. We have the space for them."

"On that reasoning," piped up the littlest Slytherin, "I've got the space for another marzipan pig."

I had a brief respite on Christmas Eve, because somebody has to go, check, and lock up Number 17 – and Meck, with Julie in the house, wasn't going anywhere. His only response to my pointed hints was a suggestion that 'everybody' might like to go – Veto! I had to apparate after that helpful comment, because Flooing to the tune of "Number 17 – no you can't come" sounded like a good way to get horribly lost.

The shop was peace – once I had got past Mr Coultt and the Lenoirs and Stradivaria Corbellini all popping out to wish me 'Merry Christmas.' I did _think_ about ringing Colly & Grout's doorbell – but decided that such a thing, while tempting, wouldn't be 'nice'. Season of goodwill, and all that – it's disgustingly Gryffindor-ish, and hopelessly catching.

The shop was quiet, anyway. Meck had left a few wood-shavings on the workshop floor – I don't know what he thinks the self-emptying dustbin is for, but it's not, apparently, for putting rubbish in. Quiet, yes. Meck's usually there being overly festive and singing carols while I'm trying to lock up for Christmas. Very quiet – I went hastily upstairs to get away from it – except – well – all right, Slytherins are not sentimental or such, but – there's such a thing as _Too _quiet, you know. Especially in a flat where there were three exasperatingly difficult muggle-borns in hiding last Christmas. I 'locked up' in record quick time, lit the fire and went home by Floo. Home – to Meck's accusations that I'd been a whole hour because I'd been scoffing a secret stash of mince pies.

_Aufwachsen, kleiner bruder!_

Christmas Day and Boxing Day were the usual whirl of Coburgs and Joders and Coburg-Drurys – perhaps whirling a little faster this year due to the _Nisse._ Nothing – I record this as a most remarkable fact – _nothing_ went wrong, even to the extent that for the first time in twenty-two years, Meck did not spill anything, accidentally or on purpose. I also had the complete and utter satisfaction of rendering Mrs Second-cousin-Alfreidus-Joder silent for seven and half minutes. They came on Boxing Day, and Mrs Fred saw fit to ask me where 'my' Ministry Official she'd heard so much about last year was.

"In Azkaban," I said. "I'm looking for a model that doesn't spend its evenings and weekends murdering people."

In contented contemplation of this triumph, I was curled up in the drawing room the following afternoon, knitting. Yes, knitting. It is something Coburg-Drurys do – and my usual relief during the four days of enforced festive frustration. Counting stitches is more socially acceptable than counting to ten before hexing exasperating relatives into the middle of next week, and if conversations get too difficult, one can always stick a cable needle in one's mouth and be thus legitimately limited to saying only 'mmmm, mmmm, mmmm?'

Besides, I like knitting lace at Christmas. It's all fine and light and silvery, a relieving contrast to the stridently cheery red and gold which we, for some strange reason in a family full of Slytherins, bedeck the house and all the greenery with.

Neither could I afford to get behind schedule with that particular bit of knitting. Coburg-Drury brides get married in a Wedding Shawl, of very old and traditional pattern. You learn how to knit one in your teens – I fortunately then got to knit baby shawls for Meck instead – but the point was that no-one was going to say that Meck's bride or wedding were in any way deficient. The white mouse can't knit – but she wasn't not going to have a Wedding Shawl. Six panels done, six to go, and I had to get done by June.

Mother came in as I was clicking needles rapidly. I – mute due to antique silver stitch marker in mouth – waved six inches of lace at her, she smiled at me, and we sat in companionable silence for a bit. By this you may judge the quality of the sound-muffling charms we keep on our reading room, because Father and Meck and all three Lowes and two Joder cousins were all in there, playing 'Muggins' with Exploding Snap cards. It's one of those things certain people in this family do at Christmas – and Meck had obviously found acting grown-up and sensibly engaged and showing off Julie and all that just too much to sustain for three whole days.

"You seem to have had a very happy Christmas, dear," said Mother abruptly.

"Oh." I paused mid-row. "Er – yes, thank you."

"And Meck, with Julie here." Mother nodded happily. "And everybody likes her. And the little girls."

On that point I could agree. Every single one of our relations, acquaintances and other festive visitors had been taken with Julie and Sally and Pam – perhaps aided by the fact most people went and connected their parents being dead with the late war – and every single one seemed to have felt the need to say so to me. Even Mrs Fred once she'd recovered her powers of speech. Therefore the tone in which I said 'yes' was probably not the most enthusiastic.

Mother looked at me. "You know," she said in a reproving tone, "If you had managed to get married you could have had two nice little girls their age by now."

If I– ? If I–? If I–!

I stood up very quickly, for fear that I should express myself in German – whereupon I should fail even to be 'nice'. And I went upstairs. And I slammed my bedroom door.

Why am I never, ever good enough?! _Nie, nie, nie!_

_I wasn't the one who was endangering the entire Coburg-Drury library with Exploding card games!And who had organised round the difficulties of this Christmas? And who had done everything last year, so that there were still three Lowes to invite for Christmas, instead of three more names on the Azkaban death list? And –!_

_It didn't matter. If I ever told about all that, everybody would admire Meck for having rescued Julie from the Dementors at the Ministry hearing, and Mother would blame me for having endangered him by letting him near Dementors…_

_Nie, nie, nie!_

"Snarking is more festive than sulking."

"_Tausend Senkgruben der Hölle!" _No, I'm not telling you where I got that one from, and I was too livid to apologise. I sat up hotly from where I had buried my head in the pillows. "I am NOT sulking! And I locked that door!"

Pam shrugged. "_'Alohomora' _is a first-year charm."

I remember. The one charm in The Standard Book of Spells Grade One that I didn't teach her last year, because when Meck first tried that one, he unlocked every door in the house. That hadn't seemed a safe risk to run in last year's circumstances.

Hurrying footsteps on the landing. "Pam, Thaklia mightn't want–" The Gryffindor stopped.

"Mightn't want what?" I asked wearily.

"Disturbing," Sally finished lamely.

"Too late." I flopped back onto the pillows. There was silence for a minute. "I thought you lot were trying to blow up the reading room?"

"Oh, we've finished." The littlest Slytherin plopped onto the foot of the bed. "Heinrich Joder had almost won… and then his whole hand of cards blew up at once! Scorched his eyebrows off!"

"He was cheating!" Sally protested.

"Accidental magic can be a nasty thing…" I remarked to the ceiling. Sally turned a bit pink. "Or," I continued, "Not so accidental…"

Not that I was complaining. Cousin Heinrich is a big blonde lump, the build and mental capacity of Willem and Schlewing, but without the Bismarck moustachios. He likes to talk – about his job at Gringotts, and his house in Wiltshire, and his job at Gringotts, and his house in Wiltshire, and his job at Gringotts… His wife is older than him, originally a Coburg with a large dowry and two chins to match. When they got married, I explained to Angela Timms that getting conversation out of new-cousin-Adelheid was like getting common sense out of James Potter.

That Heinrich had been playing cards at all bears witness to the amazing effects of the _Nisse. _Scorched eyebrows could not have happened to a nicer wizard. Of course, there remained that fact I had not been asked to be bridesmaid at their wedding because it would have been the third time – a line of thought I didn't_ particularly_ want to follow at that moment. I groaned. "Shut the door?"

"With us on which side of it?"

I shut my eyes. Sometimes life is just too much. "I don't care…"

Sally promptly shifted from hanging off the door frame to hanging off the bed-knob and Pam shut the door with a bang, and bounced back onto the bed. "Would you rather we did go away, so you could have the house-elf bring you Bobbin's Patent Headache Draught?"

"He's Tokey!" the defender of the down-trodden hissed fiercely at the cunning questioner. "I asked him yesterday, and I told you–!"

"Well, you learn something new every day," I said hastily. I wasn't in the mood for a fight on the foot of my bed either.

The Slytherin, who had half-risen, flopped again. "Mmm," she said with sudden, purposeful briskness. "Thaklia?"

_Had a very happy Christmas? Why had I bothered? To get two overly chirpy muggleborns drilling me from the foot of my bed? _

"Yes…?"

"What does a labraderiar look like?"

_What does a labraderiar look like? Do we have to rub it in that I was an incompetent tutor as well?_

"Ask Meck to cast a patronus for you," I said shortly.

Sally stopped swinging with interest. "Meck can cast a patronus?"

I opened my eyes. "Of course Meck can cast a patronus! He's not stupid – he got straight 'O's!"

"Can you?" said Pam.

_Can __you__?_

"Who do you think taught him?" I enquired sarcastically, shutting my eyes again. "That woman he had for fifth year, who couldn't even make him sit still?"

There was silence – silence that sounded decidedly sceptical to me.

_Can you? _

_Kann ich nicht?! _

I am not totally incompetent at everything!

I sat up and snatched out my wand. "_Expecto patronum!"_

I have always been rather pleased with my patronus. _ (How did I know how to do it? Willem and Schlewing inadvertently taught me, by arguing over which of them could.) _It is sort of big, and impressive, and used to scare Meck nicely when he was little. I was expecting the Lowes – I don't know what, really. To be impressed? Or at least convinced I wasn't stupid either? Or – well, what I wasn't expecting was for the appearance of a large, silvery she-bear to cause both Pam and Sally to shriek with laughter.

"Who's been sitting in my chair?!"

"Who's been eating my porridge?!"

Sally pushed Pam off the bed with another squeal of laughter. "Who's been sitting on my bed?!"

What? I looked, bewildered, from one to the other. My bear did too. The Gryffindor hastily remembered her manners.

"Thaklia, she's gorgeous!"

Er – thank you.

The Littlest Slytherin, of course, has no manners at all. She flopped back onto the bed with a grin. "Are you still – not sulking?"

"Am I –!" I stopped. _Blutig Nisse!_ They were as bad as the portrait of Grandmother Drury seven-times-removed, who in situations like this tends to tell me that 'might-have-beens' are "as indigestible as all other beans. Ignore them." Maintaining a decent level of wounded fury is just – _unmoglich!_

But Grandmother Drury gets to the root of the matter, at least! The _Nisse_ simply spread festive cheer to the point where it is catching. In fact, to the point where one's mind starts to wander, to a certain tin, not hidden, more cunningly concealed on the bottom shelf in the larder, well away from the two turtle doves in the reading room. A tin waiting for those who, like me, were not sulking, just –

I got up.

" –in need of a mince pie?"

~:~:~


End file.
